


Jar of Preggo

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [19]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I told Ben I couldn’t have his kids. Yeah, we had that conversation before I left Toronto. Mostly because I remembered his dream of having a house full of children. He stared at me and said, “We can adopt.”</p><p>We don’t have to adopt.</p><p>I’m knocked up with his kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jar of Preggo

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I’ve never been regular. 

Wow, that is a loaded statement. 

Anyways, missing a period isn’t anything new to me. The only time in my life I was anything resembling regular was when I was on the pill (after I did the patch thing till the scary not doctor lady who did my yearly gyno visit in Del Rio scared me off it). I still wasn’t all that timely while allowing drugs to play with my cycle. So, I’ve bought a few pregnancy tests in my day. 

They’ve all come out negative.

Till today.

I’m currently staring at one that was positive the moment after I peed on the stick. It’s like it’s telling me WHOA YOU ARE SO PREGNANT YOU DON’T GOTTA WAIT THE THREE MINUTES! 

Now, if this had happened to me three years ago, I’d be thrilled.

As it is…

What the frack am I going to do?  

It was the random throwing up that made me go get this plastic pee stick. My mom thinks I’ve got some weird flu bug (as I’m always exhausted too), but she thought I had the flu when I was sure I had appendicitis. (I was right, she was wrong. It’s a good thing we listened to me and not her, or it would have exploded inside me and I hear that is much worst than simply having an infected one removed.) 

So, of course, when she was so sure I was fighting some flu bug, I knew she was wrong. I did some counting, freaked out, drove out of my way to a Walgreens nowhere near my house (not all that hard, I live in suburbia where there’s a Walgreens every five feet) and bought a pregnancy test. 

You know, lesson: you’re not infertile if you simply think that’s why you and your husband are not getting the results you want. I’ve got a stick in my hand proving there nothing wrong with me.

It must have been Jason. 

Or neither of us.

Or this is one of those false positives. 

No, no. Likely not. 

I told Ben I couldn’t have his kids. Yeah, we had that conversation before I left Toronto. Mostly because I remembered his dream of having a house full of children. He stared at me and said, “We can adopt.”

We don’t have to adopt.

I’m knocked up with his kid. 

I’ve got some of Benedict Cumberbatch’s DNA inside of me, mixed with my own, and currently trying to grow a human being. 

OMG. 

I place my hand on my stomach and stare at it. 

This is way too bizarre. 

And not at all how I pictured this moment being. Back when Jason and I started trying, and I missed that first period, I took the test and imagined dancing out of the bathroom, throwing my arms around him, and being blissfully happy to be an incubator for nine months. 

As it is, I’m standing alone in my newly remodeled childhood bathroom kind of freaking out. (And not because my mom redecorated and turned the bathroom into something so modern it doesn’t fit with the rest of the house. She claims she’ll get to the rest of it next summer.) 

Ben’s filming a movie. He’s busy. 

I’m pregnant. 

I had sex with him ONCE and I’m pregnant. 

Okay, it was more than once, but takes a guy over twenty-four hours to reproduce sperm or something, so only the first time counts. Or something. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.

I’m a moron. 

I’m going to be thirty and a fat, pregnant moron. 

Bloody hell. 

“Dorothea!” my mom calls, banging on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

I want to say no. I want to tear the door open and throw myself into my mother’s arms and bawl my eyes out. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Contemplating my hair.”

I hear her scoff. “Well, stop that. You’ve got purses to pack. Jayna went home early. Test tomorrow.” 

That’s right. 

I’ve got a business to run. With oddly named interns with strange holes in their heads and odd hair colors. 

Oh, frack me.

* * *

After a dodgy conversation about Obamacare with my father and a fight with the failing at life website, I have my own health insurance and I made an appointment with a doctor. I haven’t been to a gynecologist in years, mostly because I heard this rumor while in Anchorage it was hard to get in to see one unless you were knocked up and partly because they only want to see you every other year now and by the time it was time to go, I was off birth control and never knew when my period might show up. 

Granted, it showed up _somewhat_ regularly, but whatever. 

I’ve put my wedding ring set back on my finger for the first time since I removed it.

Why? 

Because I’m an idiot. It’s my first official day being out of my twenties and I’m a moron. 

I’m pretending I’m engaged. Just to make myself not feel like a loser who got knocked up outside of wedlock. Not that it matters these days. Well, to my mother it’ll matter, as she didn’t even want me living with a guy before I was married. (I could see her logic in it, thus I didn’t argue too much. I hate that I always see both sides of the argument. It makes it hard to go against her when it makes sense to me.) 

“So, when was your last period?” the nurse inquires. 

“August twenty-third,” I reply. 

She makes a humming noise and picks up a wheel and turns things on it. “Ah, due date May thirtieth.”

She smiles, like this ought to excite me. 

It should.

It might.

I’m not sure.

“And you’re ten weeks!”

I stare at her agog. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I could be wrong. These things aren’t precise.” She waves the cardboard wheel thing around. “The doctor will be able to give you a more definite answer after he examines you.”

She is smiling at me like nothing is wrong.

“Ten weeks?”

I am squeaking. I can’t be ten weeks pregnant. I did not walk around for so long NOT knowing I was pregnant. It’s just…not possible. I mean, I’ve only known for two weeks! I think. I don’t know. I’ve known for awhile. My mom still thinks I’ve got some sort of horrible flu. I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate and didn’t wind up in a ball after puking my guts out. 

Actually, if I look at a calendar, it’d be ten weeks ago, I got it on with Benedict Cumberbatch, so it makes perfect sense. 

* * *

“Yup, I’m getting you right at ten weeks,” the doctor says happily a half hour later after he’s prodded me, scraped me, made me pee in a cup, and lathered me up in goo. After my pelvic exam, he remarked, as he pressed down on my lower regions, “Yup, your pregnant.”

I knew he meant that it was rather hard down there. I’d noticed that. It’s seriously freaky. I used to be all cushy down there. Now it’s hard, but not like I did a bunch of sit ups or anything. It still looks the same, only it’s hard now. 

This clearly means I’m knocked up.

“Are you sure?” I ask faintly, watching the little baby on the screen kick its legs. 

I’ve only been “officially” with Benedict for ten weeks. It really feels longer than that. 

The doctor moves the little thing that lets me see inside myself and the baby is gone. I feel a well of panic, as I want to see those tiny little feet and hands again. 

I let out a breath when the baby appears again. The doctor does something where he measures the baby and says, “Yup. Exactly ten weeks. I’ll give you some images to share with Dad. Where is he by the way? Work?”

“Yeah. He’s working and couldn’t get out of it,” I say, honestly telling the truth. Ben is working, filming a movie in London. I think. Or he’s promoting. No, I think he’s done with that. I should know where he is, I talk to him almost every day. 

He’s worried I’ve given myself an ulcer. 

Oh, if only he knew.

Oh, god, I have to tell him. 

“Well, you’re next scan won’t be till your about eighteen or nineteen weeks and it’ll be at the hospital. Make sure he asks off for that. You’ll both want to be there,” the doctor jovially says. 

He’s a really happy guy, this doctor. And while he could be peppering me with lots of awkward questions, he’s not. And thankfully, no one has asked me when the date of the wedding is, though I did notice the nurse eyeing my ring— maybe because it’s got two bands welded to it, making it look like I’m already married. (I soldered my wedding band and another band I got for our fifth anniversary together. So sue me.) 

“I’ll make sure he is available,” I faintly say as he hands me two printouts from the ultrasound. 

You can’t make the baby out. But, I know he’s there. I saw him. He had tiny feet, little hands, and a huge head and looked humanish and it’s mine.

He’s mine.

He is not an it. He might not be a he, but he is a person. He looks like one. Well, kind of. He’s got little hands and feet!

“So, the whole morning sickness will stop wreaking havoc on my life soon?” I ask, suddenly realizing I’m _ten_ weeks pregnant. While I’m not stellar at math, I know that there are three months in a trimester, meaning there are roughly twelve weeks in a trimester. I’ve got two weeks till I hit second semester. 

“It should,” the doc says, “I can also give you a pill to help. If you want.”

I look at him as if he’s my savior, as seriously, I’m so over throwing up.

“I love you,” I breath, pressing the scan images to my chest. 

He chuckles. 

* * *

I have to tell Ben.

I want to tell Ben.

I want to tell someone. I haven’t told anyone. I didn’t even throw away the test. It’s locked away in a plastic bag in my purse in a hidden pocket. 

Gross, I know, but I can’t throw it out.

Partly because it’s positive and partly sometimes I need to pull it out to make sure it’s still telling me I’m knocked up.  

I want Ben to know, to share in this information. I want to tell him first, but I don’t want to tell him over the phone. I have to go to London. I have to tell him in person. 

He’s in London, right? Yeah, I think he’s in London. Or will be in London. I think he’s in LA this weekend for some award show, then back to London Town. 

So, to London I’ll go.

I have to tell my mom. She won’t accept me up and going to London without reason. And…well, if there is anyone I dread telling it is my mother. 

I gulp, taking a deep breath and shout, “Mom!”

“What?”

“Uh, I have to go to London.”

My mother appears in the doorway of my room, giving me a strange look. 

“You’re sick, you can’t go to London,” she informs me. 

“Not sick,” I announce. 

Taking another deep breath, I extend the scans I’ve been staring at since I got home. Her brow knits in confusion, but she steps into the room and takes the scans from me, looking if possible more befuddled. 

“I need to go to London to tell him in person,” I go on, trying not to feel like I’m sixteen and I did something wrong. I’m almost thirty and I haven’t done anything wrong. (Well…was it wrong or just stupid to think I was the one with the infertility problem? Maybe we just weren’t…I don’t know. Not having enough sex at the right time?) 

(Stupid. I’m just stupid.)

(But, he’s not stupid. It’s hard to begrudge the person who is making me utterly miserable now that I’ve seen those tiny hands and feet. They’re so cute!!!!!)

“Dorothea,” my mother breaths. “What…”

“When I went to Toronto,” I say quietly, digging my toe into the overly green carpet of my childhood. 

This is beyond surreal. 

“I knew you and Benedict had sorted things out and were…well, on speaking terms again. I wasn’t aware you were…”

My cheeks go red. “Well, I wasn’t going to burst into the house and announce I’d had sex with him.”

“Are you together?”

Not the question I thought she’s ask. Figured she’d berate me for my lack of birth control. (Ben didn’t exactly plan on hooking up with anyone while in Toronto.)

(I assured him it wasn’t a problem, then later told him why, as I think he might have assumed I was on birth control. Clearly, I’m not. I’m also a complete dunderhead.) 

“As in he’s not dating anyone else? Yes,” I answer. 

“But, he’s been telling the press he’s not dating. He’s single,” she says.

Whoa. She sounds kinda mad. 

“I told him to say that,” I explain. “Since he had already told the press he wasn’t going to talk about his dating life any longer, I told him not to tell them his status had changed. I mean, technically, he is single as he’s not married to me. Doesn’t one remain single till the ring appears?”

Mom presses her lips together. I brace myself. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Tell him,” I reply. 

“Are you getting married?”

“What? No.”

“You have to.”

“Mom, it’s not the 1950s,” I sigh, taking the scans from her. I cross the room to where the computer sits and wake it up. “We just started this new aspect to our relationship. I mean, we’ve not seen one another since Toronto.”

“Since he got you pregnant.”

I sigh. “Mom. I rushed into the whole marriage thing last time and look where it got me.”

“Yeah, thirty, separated from your husband, and pregnant by another man.”

Ouch. That kind of hurt. 

“Fine. Don’t be supportive.”

“You get pregnant, you get married, Dorothea.”

“Not today,” I grumble. 

I know why I’m being stubborn about this, and she’s wrong and not going to talk me into thinking she’s right. Not this time. 

“You’re the one who made the choice, you must do what is right—”

“What is right in my head isn’t the same in yours,” I reply. “As I said before, it’s not 1950. It’s 2013. I don’t have to get married. Martin Freeman and Amanda Abbington aren’t married and are perfectly content. And I just got divorced.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I mailed off the papers a while ago.”

Like after the stick turned pink, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

I click around the website and buy a one way ticket to London for Monday (he should be back in London by then). I have five weeks till I’ve got to be back for a doctor’s appointment, but who knows if I’ll be back. My mom will tell my dad and who knows how he’ll take the news. 

I might be homeless. My mom looks really pissed. 

* * *

“I hate LA. And after that shooting…the airport was a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry. Why? Wait, what the hell are you doing in LA? What shooting?”

I live in a cave. Or I just joined Hermits United and it’s another ten years till I can get together with my fellow hermits to discuss world events. 

“There was a shooting at LAX on Friday,” Pamela said. “Security was really tight.”

“Okay, so what were you doing in LA?” 

“For the premier of _Thor_. And I’m not there at the moment. I just got back,” Pamela says as I throw things into my suitcase. I’ve not clue what to take.“I got a few days off and was able to make it for the premier. I hate those almost as much as I hate award shows.”

“Did you watch the movie?”

“Of course. Thomas wanted me to see it,” Pamela said. “And he figured the only way I’d see it was if he dragged me to see it.”

“Ah, classy.” 

Pamela grunted. 

“Did you meet Chris Hemsworth?” 

“Who?”

I sigh. “Thor. Did you meet Thor.”

“Oh! Yeah. And his wife. She was nice,” Pamela said. “Thomas insisted we all go to dinner, but there wasn’t time. He had interviews and other things to get done. Both of them. So, Elsa entertained me. It was a nice break. God, I hate my job.”

“Sorry.”

“Students always trying to kill me,” she grumps. 

I hum. 

“Thomas and Christopher really act like brothers,” Pamela comments. “It was kinda cute.”

I hum again. 

“Door.”

“What?”

“Your doing that humming thing that annoys you,” Pamela points out.

Crap. I thought I’d broken that habit. I hated when Jason did it to me, yet here I am, doing it myself. 

“Well, I’m going to London.”

“Huh?”

“I need a break.”

“Again.”

“Yeah. I love breaks. Will Tom be in London?”

“Yeah. He’s got rehearsals for that play. Crap. I need to ask off for that. I wonder if they will let me. They acted like I was putting them out when I asked for a few days off to go to LA. Like the world is going to end if I leave.” 

“Wow, you’re cranky.”

“You’d be too if you’d have several attempts on your life in a day.” 

Nope. I’ve just puked my guts out. I find it utterly amazing I’m still alive, if I’m honest. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

There is someone asleep on my sofa. I would assume it was Tom, but whoever broke into my flat has quite a bit of out of control ginger hair. 

“Door?” I ask, gently touching the person’s shoulder.

“Huh?” asks a groggy, familiar voice. 

I smile, wondering what Door’s doing here. She rolls over and blinks up at me.

“Oh, I fell asleep, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to do that,” she says, pushing herself to sit up. “But, I sat down and then, well, I guess I know how Tom was able to sleep here for twelve hours.” 

I chuckle. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you.”

I desperately want to kiss her, but she’s looking a bit wane.

Door leaps to her feet and charges out of the room at top speed. I hear her throw up in the toilet. I frown, knowing she’s been having stomach problems these past few weeks, but seeing it adds a whole new level of concern. 

I find Door in the loo attached to my bedroom, not the guest room. Her bags are sitting on the floor in my bedroom, which fills me with something akin to glee. 

“Door, love, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” croaks a voice from behind the half closed door. 

She makes a few horrid noises before I hear the toilet flush, while she mutters, “Gross, gross, gross. This is so gross. We are not friends, do you hear me. We are not friends.”

Who is she talking to? 

“Door?”

“Just a sec. Let me brush my teeth.”

I hear the water run and an electric toothbrush start. After a moment, the toothbrush shuts off and Door appears, looking rather pasty and a little sweaty. 

“Did you ever see a doctor?”

“Oh, yeah. He, well, uh…”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

I give her a look. 

Door looks unsure how to proceed. She tries to fix her hair to no avail, then sighs. 

“Don’t be grossed out, okay? The bag is clean,” she says by way of explanation before she grabs her handbag off the bed and digs through it. A few minutes later she takes out a plastic bag, extending it towards me. I take it, wondering what is in it. It’s dark in the bedroom, the only light coming from the loo. However, I’m pretty sure what this is. I go to the switch and flip it on, shedding the room in soft light. Door blinks at the onslaught of brightness, but remains silent. Taking hold of the bag, I stare at the stick, a strange feeling blooming in my belly. It’s upside down, so I can’t see the result. I turn it over slowly and see the result. I know enough about pregnancy tests to know that if it’s negative, the two windows match. 

The windows don’t match. 

I look up at Door, willing her to say something. 

“Here.”

She extends something else to me. I cross back to where she’s standing and take what she’s offering. They are pieces of paper with black and white images. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s his head and those are the tiny, little legs,” she says in this soft voice I’ve never heard her use before. 

I think I’m in shock. 

“Those were taken at ten weeks,” Door says. 

I look back at the scans. “Ten weeks?”

Door nods. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I guess it really didn’t become real till I saw him.” 

I’m not sure it is real. 

We’ve spent only two nights together.  

“I’m eleven weeks now. According to the internet and the apps I downloaded.” 

“Eleven weeks?” I echo. 

“Yeah, uh, so…”

I’m still trying to wrap my head around this, yet I need to say something. I look at Door and know I can’t tell her I’m in shock. She looks a little scared and very unsure. I haven’t had the best reaction, but this isn’t how I imagined this going. Last time I was in a place where I was ready for marriage and children, my girlfriend broke up with me. Out of nowhere. Now my girlfriend of less than a few months (I guess we’ve been going out for eleven weeks) is telling me she’s pregnant.

With my child. 

I look back at the scans and the pregnancy test in the plastic bag. 

“We’re going to be parents?” I ask. 

“Well, I am,” she says in a strange voice. “If you’d like to join in, I guess that’s up to you.”

“Of course I want to join in,” I say, staring at her as if she’s mental. “Why would you ever think I wouldn’t?”

“You’ve not said much.”

“I’m in shock. Didn’t you go into shock?”

Door stares at me before she snorts. “Yeah. I had a melt down in the bathroom several times before I managed to drag myself out to find out if I really was pregnant or not. Turns out I was! Six weeks pregnant. No wonder I was throwing up all the time. That’s about the time this so called morning sickness starts. Morning sickness my butt.” 

She crosses her arms cross her chest, which I suddenly find myself staring at as it’s rather large. I think. My mind wants to go to places that are not appropriate at the moment. 

Later, Cumberbatch. 

“So, we’re going to have a baby?”

“Yeah.”

There are a lot of hurtles we’ll have to figure out. I live in London, England and she lives in Villa Park, Illinois, USA. Her business is there, making it not exactly easy for her to move, while I’m pretty much booked into projects for the next two years at least. 

But, a _baby_. I’ve always wanted children. I wanted it all: marriage, cottage in the country, loads of children running around. Oh, and a dog. 

Door’s got a dog. 

Oh.

“Have you told Jason?”

“No. Why would I tell him?”

I glance at her and find she’s going through her bag again. She pulls out a file folder and hands it to me. I set the bag and scans down, and take the folder. I open it up and read the pieces of paper. 

“You’re divorced?”

“Yeah. I signed them the day after I took the test. Mailed them to him and he filed them. He’d already had them drawn up and signed them. He gave it to Pamela to give to me, along with all the other stuff on my former health insurance and stuff.”

“Did you get insurance?”

“Yeah, managed to get on the Obamacare wagon, no matter how hard they tried to keep me off with their faulty website.” 

I nod, knowing that her father would have been on her back to get insurance if she’d left the insurance Jason provided behind. 

“So…”

“I don’t want to get married,” she says flatly. From her tone of voice, I hazard she’s had this discussion before with either both her parents or one of them. “Maybe, someday, Ben, but not now. I know, there’s this part of me that’s like, GET MARRIED YOU’RE HAVING A BABY! Yet there’s another part that is kind of…uh, no. I mean, we just started this aspect and I know a baby complicates matters, but…I don’t want to rush into marriage, Ben. I did it once, I’m not going to do it again just because it’s…well, what some people do.

“I married Jason because my mother said I couldn’t live with a guy unmarried. Her reasoning made sense to me. And for five years, it worked great. We were awesome roommates. But, you know, if I hadn’t married him, I think I would have figured it out earlier that we weren’t working. And I likely wouldn’t have stayed. I’m not saying I regret it, as in the end if I hadn’t married him, I’d never met you and wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing now. I wouldn’t have him.”

She picks up the scans and stares at them. 

“Do you know that its a boy?”

“No. I just kind of chose him as a pronoun,” she admits. 

“I don’t want to marry you if you don’t wish to marry me,” I tell her. “I’m willing to do this your way.”

She gives me a lopsided smile. “Thanks.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I eye her stomach, which is hidden under a rather loose jumper. 

“My mom is pissed at me,” Door quietly admits, offering me the scans. I take them from her and gaze at them again, even though they are no less clear than they were before. “She’s really mad that I refuse to get married. I don’t think she’s thought through what that means…”

I nod. 

I don’t honestly want to get married right now. While I can see myself one day settling down with Door (and not just because she’s pregnant), now is not the right moment in our lives for that kind of thing.

Yet…there’s also a part of me that wants here closer so it’s easier for me to be a part of her life. Then again, I’ve wanted her closer since I met her.

“What are your plans?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got insurance and a doctor back home. I like him,” she says quietly. “And my business is there. We’re going to rent a studio somewhere. Likely in downtown Lombard. Not a store, just a space to spread out to sew and package things up. Mitch is looking. So, you know, I’ve got this life there, back in Chicago.” 

“I know.”

“And you’re busy,” Door quietly says. “You’ve got movies coming out, movies to film, things to do…”

“I’ll make the time.”

“I know you will, Ben. I know.” 

I look back at the scans. “How long are you staying?”

“Two weeks, if you’ll let me. I brought my sewing machine and the stuff I need to make a few purses.” She waves at one of the larger suitcases. “Hopefully it’s not broken.” 

“I’ll be in and out of town,” I tell her.

“I know. I wanted to tell you in person and you’d mentioned you were coming back to London. I need time away from my mom to let her think.”

“How did your dad take it?”

“My mom told him, mostly I think to get him on her side, but he was excited. I knew, somewhere in my muddled head, he’d take the news well. He likes the way you look at me.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Never mind.” 

I let it drop, but have a feeling her dad likes me quite a bit— to a certain extent because he’s the one who sent her to me whilst I was in Toronto, but also because I’ve been speaking to him quite regularly since I first met him when Door and I set up the handbag label. He didn’t seem all that bothered I’d been calling him when Door refused to speak to me. 

“I just…I told you I was a hot mess, remember?” she asks, giving off a rather bitter chuckle. “Well, welcome to it.”

I stare at her dumbfound before I wrap my arms around her and press her to me. Her breathing is irregular and after a moment, I feel dampness on my chest where her face is pressed. I hold her tighter. I’ve no clue what she’s really going through, as I’m not pregnant nor do I have that old fashion of a mother. (Mum will likely push marriage, but the whole grandchild business will cause her to loose focus.)

(She was thrilled when I told her a few weeks ago Door and I were together. Her words exactly: Finally, you clod! And she whacked me upside the head.) 

“Shhhh,” I sooth, stroking her back. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Except think I wasn’t able to get knocked up,” she mutters. 

“Well, yes, but that no longer matters, love,” I murmur into her hair. (I’m somewhat thrilled she can get pregnant, even if the timing isn’t the greatest.) 

She sags against me, wrapping her arms around my waist. We stay like that till she finally stops crying. She pulls away, swiping her face to clear away the tears. 

“I cry easily at the moment,” she says with a watery sounding laugh. 

“Of course you do, darling.”

I smooth her hair away from her face. I have no clue if she looks so damn good because she’s got the pregnancy glow or what, but god…I didn’t think she could get sexier, but she is. 

“What?” she asks. 

“Your bloody gorgeous,” I murmur. 

She looks at me skeptically. 

“I am dead serious,” I tell her. 

“I have no doubt you are,” she lightly replies. “However, I…feel like crap.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Let’s get ready for bed,” I suggest. “Unless you require food.”

“God, no. Let’s go to bed.” 

Within a half hour, Door is dead to the world, clinging to my arm as if it’s a life raft. I lay on my side, a dumb smile on my face and carefully work the tangles out of her curly, ginger mane. She works her way closer to me and sighs as my fingers brush her scape. I manage to free my arm from her death grip and drag her to me. I press a kiss into her hair. 

I’m going to be a father. 

* * *

I want to see the baby. Like on the ultrasound screen. So, I call Amanda. 

“That is quite an odd question to ask, Benedict,” she says, over the noise of her own two children. “Is there something you wish to tell us?”

“Not yet,” I hedge. “I was just wondering if it was possible.”

“Sure. You can make those appointments separate from the doctors appointments if you want,” Amanda says. “Or at least you could. I suspect you still can.” 

“Suggestions?” I ask, hoping she’ll point me in any kind of direction. Out of all my peers who have children, I’m not sure why I chose to call Amanda, other than I know she’ll not mention it to anyone. Except Martin, who will then call me and give me a hard time, but that’s fine.

“Of course. Hold on a moment.”

The children continue to loudly bellow, the dogs bark at something, and Amanda shouts a few times before she returns and tells me some information to get me going. I thank her and begin my quest to see my child. 

* * *

“I can’t believe you,” Door mutters. 

She’s going home in a few days. I’ve pretty much moved heaven and earth to be in town and free for a few hours to accompany her to the ultrasound I’ve set up. 

“You should,” I say. 

Door shakes her head, but smiles up at me as we head into the clinic. 

She’s twelve weeks now, entering the second trimester. She still vomits much too often, has no energy, and spends quiet a bit of time curled into a ball being miserable. Today, though, is a better day. And not just because she managed to take a shower.  

We check in, fill out paper work, and then wait to be called. 

“So, just an ultrasound?” the tech asks as soon as he enters the room we’ve been shown into and been waiting in for the past quarter hour.

“Yeah,” Door says.

“Ah, American!” the tech crows. “Where you from originally?”

“Chicago.”

“Never been there. Only ever been to New York. Great city. Well, lay back. You’ve done this before, yeah?”

The guy is really quite chipper.

“Yes. Dad missed it, so we’re here so he can see the baby.”

My heart swells to the point I think it might burst at the sound of being referred to as _Dad._

“Ah,” the guy says, giving me knowing smile. 

Please be one of the few people who has no idea who the hell I am. Please. 

“Well, how far along are ya?” the tech asks, attention going back to Door. 

“Twelve weeks.” 

“Ah, almost to that wonderful second trimester.”

“You know, I keep hearing that,” Door remarks, lifting up her shirt. 

There is a small swell there. I know there was always a little swell there, but now I know there’s a baby there, it’s firmer and larger than it used to be. Not a lot, as Door’s still wearing her own clothing and not maternity clothes yet, but it does feel different from what it felt like the first time I touched her there. (And I could tell before she pointed it out to me.) 

“Ah, not gained a lot of weight, I see,” the tech remarks.

“Kind of hard with all the throwing up I do,” Door grumbles.

Even if she takes the anti-nausea meds her doctor gave her, she still is sick at least three or four times a day.   

The tech chuckles. “Yeah, that happens. Well, let’s see if we can see the baby.” 

He takes out a little wand, squirts gel onto her belly, and then turns to watch the image on the machine. I slowly sit down in the chair next to the bed and stare at the screen, waiting to see the baby. 

“Ah, there he is!”

Oh.

Wow.

There’s those tiny little feet kicking around.

Brilliant.

“Heard the heartbeat?”

“No. Can you do that this early?”

“Yeah, you’re twelve weeks. We can do a Doppler.”

He takes a few image shots for us before grabbing another wand and the image of the baby goes away. Soon, there’s this noise that sounds like magic. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. I look at Door and find her staring at me, tears gathering in her brilliant blue eyes. I reach out and take her hand, weaving our fingers together. 

“I’m glad you wanted to do this,” she quietly says.

“Me too,” I say around the lump in my throat. “Me too.” 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I heard my baby’s heartbeat. 

With Ben in the room with me. 

In London.

The plane ride home was long and horrible. I spent quite a bit of it throwing up in the bathroom, as I already used my airsickness bag. Luckily, the women in the seat next to me was a mother and understood, as she’d been there, done that. The stewardess also recently had a baby, so she was quite understanding. After my fifth trip to the bathroom, she gave me a hoard of airsickness bags. The lady at the desk, when I asked, did change my seat so I was in the back of the plane and less likely to disturb others. Yeah, I was back there with a bunch of crying babies, but none of them cared I was barfing throughout most of the eight hour flight. 

My mom is still incensed I refuse to get married. She gives me looks all the time, and keeps bringing up stats that say kids raised without fathers turn out bad or something. I keep telling her the kid will have access to his or her father, but she seems deaf to theses statements. (She also refuses to accept the fact that Martin Freeman and Amanda Abbington are not technically married and their kids are perfectly normal. Or at least Ben assures me they are perfectly normal. I think the fact just gives my mother a heart attack because they live together and have kids and don’t have that piece of paper.)

(I know marriage is MORE than a piece of paper. (Or at least it should be.) But, I do know that some people do think its just a piece of paper.)

Dad is still utterly thrilled…still. After hearing about the ultrasound appointment Ben made, he made one for himself (dragging me along, as if I stayed home, it’d kinda be pointless).  

And he cried. Just like Ben and I did. (I didn’t cry the second time.) 

I’ve talked to my dad about the whole marriage thing and why he wasn’t upset like Mom. He said, “I thought you rushed into it last time. While I know your mom would be happier if you went and got married, I understand why you’re not rushing out to get it done as she wants. Also, in the world you live in, it might not make sense to get married right away. You’re starting a business here, while he lives in London. While it’s not the best situation to bring a child into, well, you’re going to and, well, I know you’ll both give all you can to him or her. And these days…well, marriage in Ben’s crowd doesn’t usually stand up to the stress of distance and the work. So, maybe it’s best to stay as you two are for the time being. After the kiddo arrive, then rethink the situation.”

My dad is brilliant. And lots of other wonderful words, but mostly brilliant. 

Ben’s parents are also wonderful and remarkable. I met both of them while I was over there, just for a lunch and to break the news I was going to produce a grandkid. His mother tried to hug me to death. She didn’t ask any awkward questions, just tried to squeeze the life out of me.

Then she whacked Ben upside the head before sitting back down. He sighed in good humor while his dad rolled his eyes and asked for the butter.

I kind of expected his dad to have a very British reaction to the news. I did not except his mother to attempt to hug me to death. Or whack Ben upside the head with her purses. 

* * *

“So, this is the studio space,” Mitch says, not sounding all that pleased. “We can afford it.”

We’re not in downtown Lombard. We are in Addison, in one of those bland business parks that I will likely get lost in on my way to work. 

“Good. It’s not time to open an actual shop.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mitch agrees reluctantly. “And no one will care if you bring your dog.”

He eyes Basil Bea, who is too busy sniffing every single corner of the space to pay any attention to Mitch, who she usually barks at in that annoying way she has when she doesn’t like someone. (I’ve no clue why she doesn’t like Mitch. Kind of like I’ve no clue why she doesn’t like Tom Hiddleston. Weirdo.) 

“I like a workspace I can bring the Barking Menace,” I remark, giving him a grin. “So, where is this lease?”

“Here.” He pulls out a file folder from his bag and opens it up. “It’s a lot. We can go over it or you can just sign it without reading it like I know you will.”

“Ah, you know me so well!”

“I sent it to Ben. He said you can sign it.”

I pout. “I am a grown woman. I can sign my own lease.”

“You weren’t going to read it. I figured one of you ought to read what you were getting into. He seemed to actually know a thing or two about leases. He actually pointed out some things I missed,” Mitch grudgingly remarked. “And they weren’t even British things like I thought.” 

I snort. “Didn’t think you’d be dealing with international reality did you?”

“No. But, I got a lesson. Which, might be good for the future if you ever decide to go international,” Mitch grumbles.

I’ve been entertaining opening something over in the UK, but I’d have no clue where to start or if I am allowed to do something like that. 

“So, sign here.” Mitch flips a page. “And here.”

It goes on like that for fifteen minutes.

“And you’ve leased this ugly space.”

“YAY! Can I paint it?”

“Yeah. You’ll have to paint it back when you’re done, but sure. Go for it.”

I rub my hands together. 

Mitch heaves a great sigh. “When you’re ready, call me. I’ll help you. I’ve heard tales of you and paint.”

“Hey!”

Okay, so paint and I don’t get along. I tend to get it everywhere no matter how careful I am. 

Oh god. I’ve got studio space. I’m no longer operating out of my parent’s basement. 

I’m like a real business. 

Duuuuude. 

* * *

“I got a studio and I’m pregnant.”

Silence comes over the line. 

“Pamela?”

I’ve finally caught Pamela. I’ve been trying since I got back from London, but it turns out that IPs work fourteen hours a day or something insane like that. Tom’s complained about Pamela’s new schedule, but then again, Pamela herself has turned into a kvetch. Every time I’ve gotten a text, email, or any kind of communication it’s been a grievance. I wasn’t aware Pamela could gripe so much. 

“Are you joking? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Uh, no. So, _Masterpiece Theater_! I heard they’re going to be playing _Sherlock_ back to back with _Downton Abbey_. I know how you love that _Downton Abbey_.”

“Dorothea Judoc, you’re pregnant? Like you’re going to have a baby? How did that happen?”

“Well, you know how babies are made, right?”

“DOROTHEA!”

“I’m having a baby in May. On the twenty-ninth if the little cardboard wheel is right. And before you even ask, Ben’s the father. Did I mentioned I signed the divorce papers and managed to get some Obamacare?”

I think I imploded Pamela’s head. She’s not saying anything again. 

“You’re…like four months,” she faintly says over the noise of the theme of _Masterpiece Theater._  

“Sure. I’m fourteen weeks,” I say. “Completely healthy, if my doctor can be trusted.”

“Does Ben know?”

“Of course he knows. Why do you think I went London a few weeks ago? For fun?”

“You told Ben in person?”

“Duh.”

Pamela’s silent again as Laura Linney does her opening for tonight’s episode. I pull up my leggings till it’s over my growing little bump. I’m still wearing non-maternity clothes, as the maternity clothes I’ve got are HUGE on me at the moment. Well, not that huge, but all my new jeans are still kind of roomy in the hips and belly area. And they do not stay up at all when I wear them. Especially after a few hours, so I’ve been wearing a lot of leggings and dresses. While I’m kind of thrilled I’m still sporting non-maternity clothes (even if they’re the roomier stuff, as most of my jeans are too tight), I’m kind of anxious to wear the preggo clothing and look like I’m pregnant, just not kind of fat. Well, not fat really. I just have this small bump thing that doesn’t really look like a preggo belly. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Pamela says softly as the show starts. “I’m kind of shocked because you and Jason had been trying for so long and thrilled because…well, uh…congratulations.”

“That was rather smooth, Pamela,” I joke. “I had all those same emotions when I found out myself. I’m not insulted.”

“I was going to say because I feel like you and Ben go together a little better. I mean, I liked Jason, but…you never seemed fit together. Does that make sense? No, it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, Pamela, it makes sense. I get it,” I assure her. “You’ll be an honorary aunt, by the way. I expect a present. A nice one.” 

“Of course,” Pamela readily agrees. “Have you told Tom?”

“No, feel free to tell him yourself. What’s he doing?”

“Enjoying the success of _Thor_ , rehearsing for that play, and doing something for some movie that he’s filming in February in Toronto.”

“Coolio.”

We fall silent as we watch the show we have watched together without fail (well, when both of us were in the country and not flying all over the place or having her life attempted on by crazy students) for the past five years. Absently, I place a hand on my belly and find myself smiling. While my life isn’t exactly perfect, it’s pretty damn good. Even if I’m pregnant, scared frackless, and thousands of miles away from Ben. 


End file.
